


Applique

by fujiwara_tsuki99 (orphan_account)



Category: Inazuma Eleven
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 02:21:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21171833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fujiwara_tsuki99
Summary: Somewhere along the threads lay Fubuki's shattered soul.Gouenji entangles him even further.





	Applique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leo813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leo813/gifts).

> Hi there Sameen!! You may have forgotten me but I'm blizzard_of_sakuras (until my bakka bro deleted my account). DX I guess this is counted as an apology fic because  
1\. I kinda forgot about the whole collab thingy  
2\. I missed out on chapter 6 IM SORRY HOW COULD I  
Also thank you for being such a wonderful person psst your drawings are really awesome too! XD Thank you for regularly posting your GouFubu chapter fics!!

He picks up his pen.

He's always liked to write. He's always liked to knit storylines together through the fabric of words, weaving together worlds tailored not for anyone else but him.

Alas, his embroidery has hit a knot, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't quite untangle the threads in his mind. Inhaling sharply, he ruffles through the pages of his mind and settles on a new leaf. "Yes," he exhales, "I can always start afresh." The pen shivers in his hold, almost seeming to disagree.

Again, ribbons of words flow seamlessly out of the ink, but it doesn't seem right. There's no bond between the words and the soul. Correction fluid hastily splatters here and there, erasing meaningless rambles and monitoring the faltering heartbeat of his writing. He gazes at the plague of white parading all over the yellow pad. Putting his pen down, he lets tears crumple his face. Memories silhouetted the dread nestled smugly in him.

The doorbell deftly pierces through his pierces his swamp of thoughts, paving the way back to reality. He places the stories of his life back into their mental shelves, before shuffling wearily to the door. The abandoned writing pad lay there, patiently waiting for the seemingly impossible return of its master.

That was what both, the writing pad and him, were- incomplete, like unfinished needlework.

Opening the door, his vision flutters to the boy towering before him before trying to slam the door in his face. Gouenji catches the door, wrestling with him. He knows he can easily tie with Gouenji in a war of strength, perhaps even beat him with a stroke of luck- but relents anyway. Yet, he was in no mood to talk to Gouenji Shuuya.

Gouenji bears a striking resemblance to his father- sharp eyebrows heralding a radiant charm, a dashing grin demanding attention, or his choice of words and movement oozing poise- all of which hail the soul of a murderer. Gouenji Katsuya is more of a thief, stealing lives and celebrating the underworld. He'd ransacked Fubuki Shirou's shelves in the darkest corner of his mind, carving a chapter of sorrow. A chapter he'd been forced to read, to highlight every page of grief, to sob helplessly as every syllable of suffering ran indelible scars through his memory.

He'd thought Hell was a myth, but it wasn't with Gouenji Katsuya helming it.

He wishes that this is a tale washed away with the seasons, but it isn't- it isn't fiction, and has resisted the beckoning of spring flowers, the embrace of summer, the fiery autumn passion, the alluring winter charm. It remains, licking his consciousness.

"What do you want," Fubuki spits. He's teetering daringly past the borderline of tears, and he knows it. But no matter how much he tries to resist falling prey to the reign of this familiar territory, no matter how many hues of the restless emotions he dyes his camouflage with, he knows that he never quite blends in with the picture. He's armed himself with anger to shield his tears, but Gouenji can see through his pretence. "Look...Fubuki...", Gouenji chews on his lip, letting a tangle of all the wrong words scramble mindlessly into an even more flustered mess, "I'm sorry-" "Don't be. She was going to die sooner or later," he bites back, "So thank you for your concern. I am fine. Now, please go." Gouenji's eyes widen as he takes a step back from the heartless echo of the warm friend he once knew. It's only then that Fubuki realises that he's panting, that he's a step closer to trespassing the sacred state of going crazy. "Please," Fubuki begs, tears locked in a place they aren't supposed to gather at. Gouenji realises that this isn't just a lull in his pretence-

It's a rare glimpse of the raw human he's supposed to be.

Fubuki Shirou is hurt.

So Gouenji tries his luck again.

"It's been one year, Fubuki, one year since her death-" Gouenji halts abruptly when Fubuki cuts in, "SHUT UP! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! GET OUT OF HERE!" Fubuki's chest heaves with a storm of frustration, sadness, and burden. A bitter taste ambushes his senses, and he's unsure if it's from screaming too much, or the hurt in Gouenji's eyes. His outburst collapses before him, and he's held a hostage to a thousand and one apologies all but gagging him. "I-I'm..." his splutter bleeds out into the biting air as Gouenji opens the door.

Gouenji Shuuya was the one who yanked him out of a seemingly endless nightmare when he and Atsuya only cared about soaring greater heights when they only cared that perfection brushed their feathers.

He had repaid this kindness by shedding his pent-up hate at his liberator, at his friend.

"Don't go," Fubuki pleads. He wants to make up for all the hate, to shade it with kindness. He hates how he always feels that he's bursting at the seams whenever the light and shadow in him decide on hide-and-seek. Gouenji swivels around, the flame in his eyes snuffed.

Fubuki gasps, his voice hoarse with tears.

He can feel himself tipping towards despair in a see-saw of emotions. Gouenji turns back, the tentative squeak of the door closing in front of him sweeping him into a merry-go-round of repercussions- why had he said that? What had he done to Gouenji?

Alas, life was no playground.

He might have played with fire- literally -but had ultimately burned himself in the end.

Fubuki starts crying.

It's been exactly one year since Grandma's death, and he can't get over it. He knows it isn't Gouenji's fault nor his father's that she couldn't be saved in time. It was just that... 

Gouenji's father could save so many other strangers and not the one dearest to Fubuki.

The word 'surgeon' formed a lump in his throat every time.

He had lost the pair of arms embracing him every time he came home, the pair of eyes gazing indulgently at him, the touch ruffling his hair affectionately.

He had lost Grandma.

In other words, he had lost everything.

He picks up his pen, ready to stitch together the circus of words catapulting this way and that way through his mind. He is willing to try to knit together worlds again, even if it means pricking himself on the spindle before succumbing to an eternal slumber of grief and isolation.

Funny, how he can't even stitch up the tears in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I know the ending is probably a bit depressing/ cliched/cheesy (i'm probably depressing/cliched/cheesy) but if you have any suggestions for a better ending do comment! XD Constructive criticism is appreciated!! If you have any story requests/ship requests, feel free to ask!! XD Have a nice day!!


End file.
